Step, Two, Three
by redlettergirl
Summary: A young Hungary teaches a young, irritable, surly Prussian how to dance. One-shot, fluff.


This guy was such a _freak_!

"You're a disgrace!" Hungary snapped, whacking Prussia right in the back of the head. "Can you even stand up straight?"

"Of course I can!" Prussia yelped (wait, no, that wasn't a yelp, it was an extremely manly shout!), straightening up to show this crazy guy just how well he could do it. It didn't help much, though. That freaking barbarian just smacked Prussia with that stupid stick of his again, this time across the back of his knees. "Ow! Hey!"

"Now try it again."

"Why am I doing this?" Prussia cried, flinging his arms above his head in total indignation. "This is stupid!"

"Because you're an embarrassment, that's why."

"An embarrassment?" Fists pressing against his hips, Prussia fixed that dumb guy with one of his most terrifying glares, the kind that froze charging soldiers mid-step. "Like you can talk, always getting beat up by Turkey! You're the embarrassment! No one can beat me, no way! I'm the master, the mightiest warrior of all!"

"And you're a complete imbecile the rest of the time." Reaching over with that totally annoying stick (Prussia kind of wanted to grab the thing and snap it in half while he could, but he didn't even want to think about what that psycho would do if he did; not that the he was afraid or anything!), Hungary tapped Prussia under the chin, forcing his head up and into what was apparently the proper position. "And people will think that _I'm_ an imbecile, too, for associating with you."

"Hey! You should be grateful you get to talk to me! Or do you wanna be a loser like Austria, huh?"

He got a kind of impressive glower for that (not nearly as good as his own, though, no way), and an even harder crack to the head. "Try again," Hungary demanded, one little leaf still attached to that stick flailing as he waved the thing around and propped it behind his back like the strictest of generals. It was almost like that leaf was trying to get away. Prussia didn't blame it at all.

"What's this supposed to do, anyway?" Prussia growled as he awkwardly got into position, heels pressed together and one hand hovering uncertainly behind his back.

"Teach you some culture." The twig came down in the palm of Hungary's hand, once, twice, three times. "It should make you a little more civilized, if we're lucky."

"I'm totally civilized! Way more than you!" Plus, _his_ civilization was definitely cooler than anything stupid Hungary could come up with. Way awesomer.

"Yeah, right," Hungary sneered, right before smacking Prussia in the ankle. "Now, like I taught you. Step!"

This was so unbelievably dumb, Prussia thought, growling as he stepped back and to the left, his right foot unenthusiastically following suit. Hungary could have at least picked a _good_ dance, the kind that went along with a battle chant or something. But no, of course he'd picked one of the dumbest dances known to man, something of his own that was totally skippy and stupid and, and—not Prussian at all!

Prussia had just finished a full turn—angry little mutters slipping through gritted teeth—when Hungary hit him again. "Ack!"

"Your footwork is sloppy," Hungary chided, jabbing at Prussia's feet the way most kids jabbed at dead rats. "Are you completely graceless, or just stupid?"

"Hey! I'm not stupid! This is stupid!" Prussia yelled, swinging out and snatching for that freaking stick (before getting it right upside the head). "You're stupid!"

That stinging retort, however, was only met with a head-shake from Hungary, a disgusted little grimace twisting up his face. Like he was _better_ than Prussia or something! That jerk!

"This is a waste of time!" Throwing his arms skyward for the _last time_, Prussia turned on a heel and stomped his way down the hill, grass crunching like angry little screams beneath his feet. "I could be training right now! Conquering places and spreading my religion! How about you stay here and do your dumb little dance, and I'll go build up my armies! Then I'll come back here and beat the crap out of yo—!"

Prussia wasn't sure how he managed to neither see nor hear Hungary's approach (all the hits he'd taken today must have messed with his mind; no way that freak could ever sneak up on the mighty Prussia at full strength!), but he sure felt it. After the guy grabbed Prussia's collar and pulled, even the knight himself was unsure which of the sounds he was making were gags and which were swears. "I have an idea."

Prussia didn't even need to know what this guy was thinking in order to not like it. "What?" he growled, yanking his head up and baring his teeth. "I'm not doing something else stupid, if that's what you're thinking!"

"How about this." Letting the tip of that stick come to rest at his shoe, Hungary lifted his chin, brows no longer furrowed and all traces of his sneer gone. He almost looked diplomatic, and that alone was weird enough to get Prussia's attention.

The stick that was thrust in front of his nose, almost identical to Hungary's but not quite, did a pretty good job of that, too. "I do the dance with you. Pretend it's like a fight, and you have to do your steps just right to get past my defenses. If you miss a step, I hit you." ("Well, that's a new one!" Prussia snipped cleverly, which was followed by the inevitable whacking.) "Just like in a fight. Got that?"

Well. Huh. This was weird. Hungary adjusting his methods, Hungary _being nice_—it was too messed up for words. Creepy, too. Prussia didn't like it at all.

Still, he always liked a good fight . . .

"I—I guess," he murmured apprehensively, taking the offered stick and weighing it carefully in his sword hand. "But if that's how you think a fight goes, then you're a complete—"

"Go," Hungary said, did the first step, and hit him.

"Ow! Hey—!"

"Keep up!" Hungary repeated that first backward step, and though it gave him the most horrible twisting feeling of shame, Prussia still started and scrambled to catch up. "Slow swordsmen lose their heads!"

"I know that!" Prussia yelled back, alternating between watching his stick, his feet, and the psychopath directly in front of him. Turning just like he'd been taught, the crispness of his usual battle gait marred by the inherent idiocy of this dance, he carefully coordinated his next step with a swing of the stick, missing Hungary's shoulder by half an inch. "I take them off!"

"Prove it!" Hungary practically cackled, which definitely didn't fit with the way he was twirling around like a fop. "Show me!"

If there was one thing that Prussia didn't like, it was following someone else's orders, especially when they were this guy's. Still, the idea of showing Hungary who was boss—even at his own kind of dancing!—was enough to keep Prussia's feet moving, if maybe a bit slowly. Hungary was apparently satisfied, too, because when the stick did land it was lighter, more instructional.

Prussia couldn't help but smirk. Ha! Sure showed that jerk!

Lost in his own mental congratulations and the delicious, familiar feeling of success, it took Prussia an instant too long to notice the way Hungary suddenly stopped and shot forward, hands outstretched. Then those hands were clamped tight around Prussia's own, both of their sticks falling to the ground, and Prussia had all of a moment to be dumbfounded (warriors didn't pull stuff like this in a fight!) before Hungary leapt to the side, taking the knight with him.

It took Prussia a bit to realize what they were doing, and he didn't bother to stop himself from twitching once he knew. He'd seen Hungary do this part—they were skipping; _skipping_!—and it felt just as ridiculous as it had looked. That fact, however, seemed to go right over Hungary's head, because the guy still had on his most serious, determined face. His warrior face. While dancing and skipping.

Such a _freak_.

After turning them around and forcing the both of them through another round of inane prancing (did the torment ever end?) Hungary finally deposited the both of them beside their weapons, sighing and brushing the hair away from his face. "I've seen better," he said as Prussia squirmed and wondered if he would ever be able to wash the sissiness off himself. Prussia shot the guy a glare, pointedly folding his arms over his chest, and was two seconds away from an incredibly clever and stinging retort when something very strange happened. Reaching down, Hungary took up his stick, held it at his side like the most honorable of blades, and bowed.

"But it's not as bad as you were doing before," Hungary said nonchalantly, shrugging still bent shoulders. "Good job. Now, let's ta—"

Then, as Hungary moved to stand, a stick came crashing down—swift, hard, victorious!—against the back of his head.

"Ha! You idiot!" Prussia shrieked with glee as he pulled his stick back, triumph finally his. "You never take your eyes off your opponent! Victory to Prussia! Now you can bow all you like! On your knees!"

It took Hungary a grand total of ten seconds to have Prussia disarmed and face down in the dirt.

"Now," the guy growled, yanking Prussia to his feet and handing over a slightly more snapped-in-half-weapon. Jerk! _Freak_! "Let's try this again, all right?"

He found her in the ballroom, wearing some poofy, frilly piece of whatever that didn't fit her at all (in more than one way; Austria's tailors didn't seem to remember that she'd just spent however the hell long getting thinner and thinner on the other side of the Wall, freaking morons). She looked so damn _dainty_, a glass of champagne in one hand and a small, contented smile on her lips as she watched the dance floor fill with twirling idiots. She looked like a _girl_. So weird.

It was only when he approached her, taking her free hand and giving her a big, toothy grin, that the grimace he knew so well returned to her face.

"We didn't invite you," Hungary snarled under her breath, nose wrinkling as Prussia oh so suavely took the champagne from her hand.

"Yeah, pretty rude," he commented, downing her drink—couldn't that priss Austria find the testosterone to serve some real alcohol?—before setting it aside and taking her other hand. "I might forgive you, though, if you ask nicely."

"What do you want?"

"Just felt like crashing a party." He looked at the extravagance around him with upturned nose, simultaneously smirking and cringing at the lot of it. All this sissy crap. He was able to shake it off long enough, however, to mock-elegantly bow and start pulling her in the direction of the dance floor. "And hey, thought maybe I'd show you how much better I've gotten at this dancing crap since you stopped teaching me. For old times' sake. And Hell, maybe we can be adventurous and have you not hit me. Whataya say?"

She glared, of course, because that was what Hungary was best at after whacking people with sticks. Still, through her annoyance Prussia swore he saw the tiniest little sparkle of _something _pleasant, something agreeable_._ Even when they were out on the floor—the edge of it, of course; no way in Hell was he getting into the thick of this stupid crowd—she merely followed along and held onto his hand, not acting nearly as displeased as she looked. Hell, there might have even been a smile hiding back there, somewhere—anything was possible.

"And hey," Prussia murmured, smirking as he leaned in close to her ear, "maybe later I can remind you what a real _man_ is li—"

Hungary responded, promptly, efficiently, and in the spirit of yesteryear, by kicking him in the kneecap.


End file.
